


from your lips to my hands

by astarisms



Series: paper trails [1]
Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: EoG spoilers!!!, F/M, Post-Canon, but this is a fic i wrote like a month after i read eog, figured it was time to clean it up and post it, it's kind of soft but idk it doesn't feel right putting this under fluff, so back in april, them exchanging letters through the cave makes me SOFT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: nahri's scout finds something unexpected nestled among the vessels in the cave above the gozan.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri e-Nahid
Series: paper trails [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897015
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	from your lips to my hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlethiefs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlethiefs/gifts).



> this fic was originally written for aimal, and to aimal it will stay gifted towards <3

Banu Nahri e-Nahid has never been one for patience, or restraint, but she likes to think her years in the infirmary have been of benefit to her restless impulsivity. That is to say nothing of her hospital, which demands so much of her time in the months following their…  _ removal _ of Manizheh, that she has little mind for anything else. 

Sometimes she feels like she is drowning in the work. She remembers all too well the inability to breathe, the pressure in her chest that becomes more and more painful the further she sinks, and it is an awfully familiar sensation that overcomes her when she stops moving, when she thinks of the hospital and the shafit and the council and the injured and the angry and the dead and how is she supposed to fix everything? How had she ever thought that she could heal the pain of the grieving and cure this city of the pervasive prejudice that had ingrained itself in the very stones that it was built on, centuries ago?

Even with help, some days it feels like an impossible task. Even with Suleiman’s seal, she fears that there’s no amount of magic that can stitch Daevabad back together.

But then she catches her breath, and she carries on, because she’s come this far and she’ll be damned if she gives up now. She has lost far too much to say it was all for nothing and Creator help her, she will see this city healed or be dragged to Paradise trying.

With so much to occupy her, her thoughts should not stray to him—but when has her heart ever listened to reason when it came to her Afshin? 

It’s hard not to remember the death and destruction he brought into their city in waves, each more devastating than the last, when there are so many still taking up the beds who curse his name and sob at what he’s taken from them. Her heart aches, both for and with them, because he had stolen from her, too.

The broody, charming warrior that had threatened her life in a Cairene cemetery must have picked up a few of her tricks in their time together, because though she could remember giving him neither, her heart and her trust had both been his. And then, he had shattered them, again and again until she thought the damage irreparable. 

But when she returns to the little home she’s made for herself and turns his dagger between her fingers, it is difficult, with the scent of smokey incense from her altar and the citrus breeze from the orange trees outside her window and the bejeweled hilt he had pressed into her hands so long ago, to not remember him. Not in the way her patients do, not of the scourge they know him as, but as the  _ man _ she knows him as.

Nahri remembers how he had looked that day, dappled in sunlight. There had been an ease to him she had never seen before, a determination that wasn’t wrapped up in bitterness or resentment. A burden lifted off of his shoulders, after so many years of carrying its weight. A purpose he could finally believe in unflinchingly, despite the impossibility of it. 

A choice that was his.

_ I am so proud of you _ , she thinks on these nights, and closes her eyes against the burning pressure building in them. And then, unbidden, in spite of everything:  _ I miss you _ .

But he had taken his path, and she hers. She will carry that memory of him with her forever, pressed close against her heart, and stay true to her vow and remember his. 

And so it’s not for a couple of years that things have settled enough that Nahri has a spare moment during the day, one where she can pull Kartir aside and tell him everything she’s clutched so tightly for so long, about the day Dara left. And Kartir listens with kind eyes, and she thinks she sees a fierce pride in them, one that runs so deep she wonders at the nature of his own relationship with her Afshin. 

When she is done, he pats her hand, and rises to his feet with some effort. 

“I will send a disciple,” he says, with a determination that brooks no arguments from her, “and we will check your cave.”

Nahri, with her limited abilities, draws up a map as detailed as she can recollect. She prays to every god she’s ever heard of that they won’t ask questions, that they don’t wonder at the nature of this particular cave, or how she remembers it so well after nearly a decade, because she knows there will be no answer she can give that her blushing face won’t betray as a lie.

Fortunately for her, they don’t ask questions. Unfortunately for her, Kartir is oftentimes alarmingly observant, and the knowing glint in his eyes tells her that he’s figured it out anyways. She knows that her and Dara’s complicated relationship had always been an open secret, but even now, she feels that fiercely protective impulse rise again, ready to defend what they had had while maintaining what little she could of their privacy.

But finally she thrusts the map at them, and the disciple—Hashem, she learns, a strong young Daeva man who Kartir had assured her could be trusted—is off.

Nahri returns to the hospital, in need of a distraction. In the hours after his departure, it feels like years of tolerance, years of work curating the little patience she had, disappears. It’s ridiculous, for her to be so restless when the most they will find is a vessel or two, and that’s if they’re lucky. Part of her wonders if the trip will have been for nothing. Another wonders if it won’t be, and if Dara had been back, so close to her and yet so far away.

She wonders if he tried to cross the veil again, just for the sake of it, and been denied.

_ I miss you _ , she thinks, fierce and involuntary, and despairs at the truth of it, because she knows she shouldn’t and she knows it won’t fix anything. Her missing him will not bring him back into the city’s borders, will not relieve him of the purpose he has burdened himself with, and yet it does not change the fact that she does, and frequently.

For all the ways he’d broken her heart and her trust, he still holds both in his hands. Their goodbye in the clearing had proven that they were still his, and she finds she is no longer particularly inclined to have them returned to her. Let him have them, if only so that his journey would not be so very lonely.

But, Nahri thinks, straightening when Razu pokes her head into her office, looking a cross between extremely amused and a touch concerned and saying something about Jamshid and potions gone wrong, now was not the time to think of such things. She has patients to treat, a brother’s mess to clean, and a reserved timeslot before bed to simmer over all things Afshin-related.

*

It takes almost the full day before Hashem returns from the caves. He is waiting outside of her office with Kartir, the two of them with their heads bent together, and Jamshid at her side gives her a curious glance. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, but Nahri’s heart has found its way into her throat at the sight of them, at the prospect of news that she had spent the day diligently distracting herself from, and she finds it hard to answer immediately. Jamshid’s brow creases with worry now, and Nahri forces her heart back down into its proper place, looking over at her brother.

“I’ll tell you later,” she says, trying for a smile. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

“I’ve never seen good news put that look on someone’s face. But then, you always were a special case,” Jamshid muses teasingly, nudging her. He casts one more look between the three of them, pressing his fingers together in the Daeva greeting. “May the fires burn brightly for the both of you,” he murmurs warmly, kisses Nahri’s temple, and then continues on his way.

Nahri watches him leave, her fondness for her brother at odds with the anxious fluttering in her stomach. Then she turns back to the two holy men, and ushers them into her office. 

“It went well, I hope? You found the cave?” she asks, aware of how breathless she sounds.

“I found the cave.” Hashem confirms, and though Kartir’s expression is impassive, there’s a light in his eyes that tells her her poorly contained eagerness amuses him. He nods at Hashem, and the younger man reaches into the satchel slung across his body, pulling out a small, wrapped parcel and passing it to Kartir. He gently unfolds the handkerchief protecting the item, revealing a battered iron bangle and a—ring. Both set with bright, huge emeralds, the ring so familiar it makes her heart ache, though she knows it must belong to another.

Her eyes widen with wonder, and the breath rushes out of her. She takes a step closer, reaching out to the vessels. She can feel the sleeping djinn in it, calling out to her. She blinks back tears.

“He did it,” she whispers, almost disbelievingly. “He’s bringing them home.”

Kartir smiles, and rewraps them, returning them to the satchel. The presence weakens, but she can still sense it, the lives begging to be freed.

_ I will _ ,  _ I promise. _

“I will return them at once to their resting place, until you come to claim them,” Kartir says, and Nahri nods in agreement. But Hashem shifts, and Kartir shares a knowing look with him, and Nahri feels she has missed something.

“What is it?”

“The vessels…” Hashem says slowly, “they were not the only thing left in the cave, Banu Nahri.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, brows furrowing in confusion. He reaches back into the bag, and withdraws a small leather pouch. Puzzled, she meets his eyes again, then Kartir’s. The old priest only gives her a look, and Hashem sets the pouch in her hands. It’s not heavy, but it is bulging for its size. 

“It was with the vessels, in a larger bag,” Hashem explains, answering her unasked question. “I did not open it,” he rushes on, looking between her and Kartir quickly. Kartir smiles, and Nahri finds herself more than a little frustrated with all the things he is not saying, but she bites her tongue.

“We thought it best you be the one to open this one. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Banu Nahida, we have vessels to restore to the Temple.”

“Of course. And—thank you,” she says, haltingly. “I appreciate your help. Both of you.” Hashem presses his fingers together and bows, before hurrying from the room, though Kartir is slower to exit.

“Next time, perhaps you might give a little more notice for groundbreaking news,” he retorts goodnaturedly in parting, and Nahri laughs, though the moment they leave her to her office, she turns her attention back to the pouch, wondering at its contents, almost afraid to open it.

_ Just open it. What’s it going to do, bite you? _

_ Maybe. _

But she takes a deep breath, and pulls the leather drawstring. Inside, there are only several sheets of paper, folded over. Even more confused than before, she turns it upside down, pushing from the bottom to empty it. 

Nahri, intrigued, carefully picks up the paper and unfolds it. 

It takes a long moment for her brain to catch up to her eyes, for her to decipher the poorly drawn lines that form the letters that make up her name. 

Nahri’s breath catches, and she thumbs through the pages, to the signature at the bottom of the last, just to be sure.

_ Your Afshin. _

_ Dara _

She claps a hand over her mouth, though whether to stifle a laugh or a sob, she isn’t sure. She returns to the first page, devouring it as quickly as she’s able with a scrawl as shaky as a child’s, and then she sets it aside and reads the next, and the next, and the next. Her heart beats a painful, hard rhythm in her chest, and the anxious, jittery thing in her gut bursts into something bright and warm and recognizable with every new word—and if her image of  _ hope  _ suddenly shifts to encompass chicken scratch smeared by teardrops that most definitely are not hers, then thank God there is no one to judge her in the privacy of her own office. 

She laughs wetly, and reshuffles the pages, and begins again, hearing the words in his voice.


End file.
